by Luke Webster
“Go on Harmond,” encouraged his brother, excited by the idea. “It would only be first blood.”
“You’re at least two years older than him anyway,” an undistinguishable voice called from the pack.
“No match for you,” another stated.
Harmond wanted to protest over the rising sea of excitement, to speak out against the idea, but he could not. He heard the choruses of ‘Little Harm’ in his mind, taunting and spurring him on. He knew that winning a duel was a first step towards burying the name. A step towards building up the courage to speak to the chambermaid he had eyed for many months.
The boys crowded round, patting him on the back and building him up with words of encouragement. They called him ‘brave’ and ‘hard’, words that Harmond had not been referred to before.
“First blood,” he declared, steeling himself. They wrapped him up, escorting him across the courtyard while lazy guards and servants watched with disinterest. Fredrick and Damian stopped their game, already puffed, and watched the mob advance. They exchanged glances but remained silent as the leering teenagers surrounded them. Harmond was pushed forward, looking uncomfortable and unsure.
“Fredrick Themmond,” Thomas announced. “You are being challenged to a fair and honourable duel by the worthy Sir Harmond Goldshore.”
“On what grounds?” Fredrick asked, dubious.
“By striking Lord Damian you have insulted all who draw his blood.”
“I’m no lord,” Damian protested.
“You are commanded to take part in a duel to ‘first blood’. If you decline you will forever be shamed under the noble’s code of honour.” Thomas crossed his arms, leering down at the children. He enjoyed playing the authoritarian.
“I will not allow this,” Damian spat.
“What’s this? The little bum-boy needs his master to protect him?” taunted Helmut.
“Excuse me?” Fredrick asked, confused and annoyed.
“Everyone knows you let our most gracious and noble lord defile you,” laughed Helmut. “You’re only following duty though.”
“Enough,” Damian yelled, blood pumping to the scars on his face. “This is fool’s play.”
“No,” countered Fredrick, upset by the insult. “They are insulting you, not me. I accept the challenge.” Harmond looked pale, having voiced no opinion. Damian tried to object but Fredrick was resound. “It’s only first blood,” Fredrick reminded him.
“Just take a cut and end it,” Damian suggested. Duels of the manner were supposed to end in a single drop of blood, each opponent expected to refrain from a lethal blow. History was pocked with tragic tales of men killed in the first strike, a victim of an over zealous assailant.
“The duel will occur in the Old Courtyard as a private affair,” stated Thomas in his commander’s voice. Damian tried to interject but was swept aside by the mob, bundling up both Harmond and Fredrick and pushing them onwards. The crowd rounded the western gardens and jumped the wall, two swords ferried over with them. Damian followed.
Both boys were stripped down to their leggings, bare chests open to the cold bite that swept through the old citadel. Fredrick was lean, his body not showing the girth of the older boys. Harmond was less impressive, a pouching stomach the beginning of the standard Goldshore build, a family with a history of succumbing to excess and consumption.
Both boys held real swords. Harmond owned his own, a fine blade that had been forged as a coming of age present. The hilt was gold inlaid with a snake inset. Fredrick owned no sword, Thomas more than happy to lend him a blade. It was thick and heavy, peculiar compared to the wooden swords that Fredrick had trained with. He had to grip it in both hands to keep the blade steady. Damian stood beside his friend, offering advice to the better swordsman. After the crowd laid their bets Thomas took centrepiece.
“Let’s have a fair fight here,” he echoed with a smile. “No kicking or biting. You’re here under noble rules and must therefore fight as such. First man to drop blood will be the loser, the winner absolved from any crime he is accused of.”
“What of the loser?” one onlooker cried.
“They will forever be known as the ‘Arse-Riddler of Ironwood’,” grinned Thomas.
There was a mighty roar, both boys reddening at the prospect. Neither would accede defeat.
Thomas ordered the fight to begin, acting as referee. The swordboys circled, watching each other, fearful of the first move. Harmond stood a foot taller than Fredrick, his reach longer and blade lighter. Fredrick circled with sword point low, ready in defence. Fredrick had never fought with steel before, he was exhilarated and scared at the same time. He stared up at the fat opponent, keeping his eyes locked. Harmond’s vision skipped between Fredrick’s feet, blade and face.
The younger boy saw the lack of discipline, feigning a lunge and assessing his opponent’s reaction. Harmond was slow, scrambling to block an attack that didn’t exist. He heard taunts from behind, as those who bet against him cheered on Fredrick. The foreigner wore a faint smile.
Fredrick feigned a second lunge, noting a similar response. Harmond held a stilted stance and nervous defence. Fredrick’s main worry was Harmond’s longer reach and the weight of the borrowed sword taking its toll. He did not want to be nicked while dropping in to lunge.
With further circling Fredrick saw his moment. Harmond’s eyes were down, transfixed on Fredrick’s feet. Fredrick lunged again, feigning a stab for a third time. As Harmond raised his blade Fredrick dropped into a sweep, dragging his sword backhand and across his opponent’s body. Harmond parried in time to save a chest wound, Fredrick’s blade sliding up over Harmond’s and bouncing off the top of his shoulder.
There was a mighty roar when fresh specklets rose across his shoulder, shouts declaring Fredrick the victor. The boys booed down Harmond, calling him ‘ the Arse-Riddler’ and ‘Little Harm’. His head turned crimson and he let out a cry, raising his sword and charging the younger opponent.
Fredrick saw and with a side step he dodged the arc of incoming steel, lancing his own blade out and causing a second welt to appear in Harmond’s flank. The crowd fell quiet.
Damian tried to rush in but Thomas Longshore held him back.
“Don’t get between two men in battle,” Thomas warned, all mirth lost in his voice.
Harmond rose again, a contorted look of pain sprayed across his face.
“Are you alright?” Fredrick panted, concerned that he had cut too deep. Harmond didn’t answer, instead swinging his blade up from behind, slashing out. Fredrick ducked back in time to miss having his skull caved in, the blade slicing his bottom lip down to the chin. Blood dotted the arena.
A second sweep came from Harmond, enraged at a lifetime of taunting and bullying. Fredrick charged him, too exhausted to raise his arms to block the attack. He snuck in under the hilt, bowling Harmond over the hard stone.
They laid still. The crowd scattered. Fredrick looked into Harmond’s shocked eyes, a sketch of fear on his face. At first Fredrick thought the older boy was trying to push him off with a hand on his leg. The push was a pulse, hitting Fredrick with force. The borrowed blade had skewered Harmond, pushed in just below the groin and severing the artery, the blood pumping up against the younger boy and splashing into the courtyard.
Two onlookers remained, Ramond and Damian. Ramond rushed to his brother’s side, pushing away the foreigner on top, and sat with him as he bled to death.
Fredrick watched in horror.
A grieving brother’s sobs echoed in the courtyard. Fleeing gamblers had left coins scattered, dropped in the haste of escape. Distant voices came, their tone urgent. Steel boots resounded on the stone as guard master Bryce Hommel arrived, escorted by Thomas Longshore. Two guards followed along with a surgeon.
“Master Damian, what is the manner of this?” came Bryce’s call.
“Sir Hommel…” Damian croaked, still in shock. “They were dueling.”
“Dueling?” came an unsatisfied reply from the s
urgeon. “Duels can only occur under courtly moderation. This is nothing more than a streetfight.”
“And Fredrick was the assailant? Am I correct?” Bryce asked.
“It was a duel,” Damian insisted.
“A court will have to decide that,” Bryce stated, walking to the accused. “Fredrick son, I’m going to have to place you in custody. Do you understand?” Fredrick gave a slow, agonized nod, blood dripping out his chin. Bryce ordered one of his guards to escort the boy away.
“Have him cleaned and stitched…and be gentle with him,” Bryce stated.
Damian tried to follow.
“I need you to stay here and give witness,” Bryce told the regent’s son, leaving the heir to examine the corpse, giving cold comfort to a bereft brother.
19
Locke left early, leaving Maria to sleep. He felt ill after a night of moderate drinking, an uncommon vice for him. He picked the front door to leave, preferring it to his means of entry. There was a heavy mist outside, morning fog common in the mountainous valley. Locke did not mind, he knew the streets well.
The light pouch at his side was enough to pay off his landlord, the bull-faced man’s temperament sure to be quelled. Locke was a month in arrears and his landlord had threatened injury on lack of payment. Locke cursed himself for the fool. He could have paid an entire winter’s accommodation with his last payout.
As Locke pressed on to his apartment, set in the Middle Quarter, he considered his current predicament. Looking back he decided that the sudden illness of his father had turned into a saving grace for the gambler, a thing to be thankful for from a man who gave little to his children’s lives. The old man had met his end like most thieves, Locke realised, work-related. Tony had grown old, unable to make a job pan out and paid the price. Locke wondered when his time would come. It was inevitable that fate would turn its hand, Locke had seen it throughout his career. Careful professionalism could only carry a thief so far, there were always unseeable events.
Locke did venture home. He made his way to a rail system that connected to the main line. He passed the checkpoint without paying, sneaking in on the other side of the track through a hidden point. He knew the way well, having learnt many of the city’s secrets while still a child. A flogging would be handed out to anyone caught sneaking into the system, a small risk that Locke considered acceptable in his current state. Since the trains had started running there had been those willing to steal a ride.
Once Locke touched home base he paid off his debt, sating Harry, the angry bull, enough to prevent a wild charge.
“You’re due again in two weeks,” the landlord noted in a gruff voice, wheezing first then coughing black phlegm into his hand. The croaking cough was a common ailment in the city of coal fires. Locke watched with mild repulsion as Harry wiped the tarry mess on his shirt front before handing back a half coin in change.
“Then you’ll see it at that time,” Locke replied coolly.
“Make sure I do,” Harry barked. He shut the door hard, aiming for Locke. The thief was too nimble, stepping back before he could have his nose crushed on the front of the landlord’s door. Locke stood for a moment, noting with a sly grin the faded blood stains on that door.
Locke stepped down the sparse hall, passing his own door. Aside from his tools and a bed there was little inside. He had no need to step past that threshold for the moment, instead stepping back into the street. The fog had faded but not yet vanished.
With three coins left to his name Locke sought out one place he hoped they could turn into many.
“You’re not going to believe what’s happened,” Locke heard a voice call to him as he entered the Ilky Den. Jim looked nervous, dark rings hanging under red eyes.
“What?” Locke asked, stepping up to the bar.
“Craig Greytongue’s been murdered.”
Locke stared at him, dazed. Craig had been in the business a long time, serving many of the regulars at the Ilky Den, he was known to Locke.
“They know who did it?” Locke asked, referring to the city watch.
“They? They haven’t got a clue… wouldn’t even come into the quarter to investigate. Had to send the bodies out just so they’d check on it.”
“Three in two nights,” mused Locke, reflecting on his father’s death.
“Yeah, and that fellow who dragged Tony up last night is connected with all of them.”
“The man with no memory?” Locke noted, the stranger’s face entering his mind.
“That’s the one. Sought out Craig that night, was going to meet up today for some ink work.”
Another regular stepped from a back room, the dim lights playing shadows across his scarred face. O’ryan Budline, a notorious criminal renowned for a sadistic streak, was also Locke and Jim’s half-brother. He nodded once to Locke before turning to Jim.
“It’s been organised,” he said in his calm, rasping voice.
“What has?” inquired Locke.
“O’ryan’s going to hunt down the Memory Man,” Jim noted.
“He’s responsible for Tony’s death you know,” O’ryan said with arms crossed.
“You don’t know that yet,” Jim corrected. “Bring him here for interrogation.”
“Fine.”
O’ryan returned to the back room.
“I’m sending a tracker with him, just in case.”
“Do you think he’ll need it?” Locke asked.
“No, but I want this man returned alive. If he’s responsible for the murders then he might be working for someone. O’ryan’s not a good interrogator, he strikes too hard, too fast and kills before he can get his information accurate.”
“Who’s the tracker?”
“Manderley Serravia, works with the watch a lot, gets good leads.”
Locke had heard enough. The victim’s deaths had surprised him but he was not going to mourn. Jim was going to waste money searching for a man that may not be the killer and likely have him disappear, something that Locke thought excessive. Jim wasn’t attached to either of the main crime families, asserting some independence from that politic. As a result Jim was overly paranoid, jumping at shadows. Locke doubted there was any major conspiracy linking the deaths and did not see his father’s as a murder. He took his leave, ordering a water, and sat in his regular spot in the gambler’s corner.
20
The black behemoth hammered along the track, its iron wheels cutting swathes through the ash that fell on Ironwood. Inside a bleak carriage Dead sat with downcast eyes. His shoulders rocked back and forth in motion with the bucketing locomotive as he stared at the fresh tattoo scribed on his forearm. Ghost stood beside him, ignoring his stooped companion, instead focused on a filthy window plate and the ugly city that rocked by. They were on a voyage to discover the identity of Cynthia Bernhart, heading into the heart of Ironwood.
The steam engine thundered ever onwards to the south wall of Central Ironwood. Ghost looked out over the Middle Quarter. Cramped houses packed the streets, rising two and three stories high. Houses were sporadically interrupted by storefronts, typified by vendors standing out front ready to peddle their goods to anyone in earshot.
On the horizon stood hundreds of tall chimneys, standing above the walls, each one bellowing out thick smoke. Ironwood was a dirty city, fuelled by constant coal fires that swept ash through the streets. With each downpour the rain would wash away the residue, but little rain fell today. Was it something that should concern him? Ghost wondered. His current situation dictated that it didn’t. He was stuck travelling with a madman.
Passengers were oblivious to the spirit standing among them. Absent faces stared through Ghost. Dead was the only person Ghost could relate with, his only companion and associate. Without him he would be lost. In his thoughts, Ghost hoped that he could find another person to communicate with. If he could, Ghost decided, then he would abandon Dead and his violent mannerisms. Until that time he was an accomplice.
The quality of housing saw a ma
rked improvement. The tight, unmarked apartments that they had escaped turned into well-plotted architecture. The streets grew wide and cobbled pathways replaced the unkempt tar stretches of Poor Man’s Quarter and the Middle Quarter.
The behemoth groaned. A passing sign noted that they were entering Old Bond Station. Ghost woke Dead from a state of absentmindedness, notifying his companion of their departure.
The pair stepped off onto a wide platform. It was a meeting place for three main rails. One that swept around the city, another that came directly from the mines, and a third that drew passengers from far off, pulling them though the Highlands and around the rocky slopes that flanked the city.
The platform swarmed with people, some carrying goods, others unburdened. Some dressed in fine clothes with servants, others covered in filth waiting for a train to connect them from the mines to whatever hovel they claimed home.
Faces blurred past the pair as they stumbled through the mess. Dead was swept aside in the flood of bodies while Ghost looked on in horror, unable to physically push past the throng. Dead did not notice the danger, he followed the flow without resistance, too dense to consider that he might not be going the right way.
Ghost shouted out but his voice was lost in the din. Panic gripped the spirit as his form was pushed further away by the physical presence of shuffling bodies. Ghost lost sight of Dead in the sea of people and opened his mouth to scream.
A sudden spasm interrupted the cry. Ghost heaved and was yanked against the push of bodies, a force dragging him in the direction of Dead. It was an invisible rope, or so he considered, as his body squished and morphed around bodies. He passed through the throng with a heaving, uncontrollable shudder, following at Dead’s pace. He was perplexed and nauseated.
Whatever force dragged him along meant that he was inseparable to Dead. He couldn’t move in any other direction even if desired. He was tied to Dead through a spiritual link that held physical dominance over Ghost. And it worried him.
The throng thinned as the pair shifted away from the main platform giving Ghost room to move by freewill. He caught up with Dead, leading him down a flight of stairs and out onto the main street. Ghost stuck close to Dead as they passed through the busy crowd not wishing to become separated again.
